


Dark Enough

by MoanDiary



Series: Moan Your Way Through Fuckruary [2]
Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Angst, Caingst, Character Study, F/M, Ficlet, Prompt: Sensory Deprivation, fuckruary2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-02
Updated: 2020-02-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:01:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22526743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MoanDiary/pseuds/MoanDiary
Summary: In the midnight gloom of his bedroom, or hers, or even in the dim light of the evidence lockup when her fingers fumble against the light switch, they could be anyone. Not lieutenant and detective, not boss and subordinate, not even Marcus and Chloe.
Relationships: Chloe Decker/Marcus Pierce
Series: Moan Your Way Through Fuckruary [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1626784
Comments: 17
Kudos: 68





	Dark Enough

They fuck in the dark, mostly. 

Pierce prefers it, and Chloe does too. In the midnight gloom of his bedroom, or hers, or even in the dim light of the evidence lockup when her fingers fumble against the light switch, they could be anyone. Not lieutenant and detective, not boss and subordinate, not even Marcus and Chloe.

It’s just his strong, knowing hands on her skin, through her hair, inside her. Her lips against his, sharing gasping breath. Him warm and sturdy between her clenching thighs.

Every touch is a surprise in the darkness. Hands and lips and teeth meeting skin without warning, and leaving just as unexpectedly. The head of his cock sliding against her clit, the sudden thrust of it breaching her, stretching her, filling her. It lends the whole exercise a special thrill, even beyond the pedestrian taboo of their professional relationship. It lets them pretend they don’t know what will happen next, where this whole thing is going—its predictable, ignominious fate. 

She remembers the thrill of new love, and pretends this is what it feels like. He doesn’t even remember it well enough to pretend.

When he’s buried inside her, she finds she doesn’t have to think so much. Doesn’t have to fret about her job or Trixie or the rent or her personal life or...anything. Her focus narrows down to just sensation— _now, here_. She has someone who _wants her_ , and this is proof, even if that someone isn’t the one she wants.

When her arms wrap around him, holding him close, he finds a kind of hope. He can pretend he’s accepted, understood, forgiven. That her love is special, the key to his prison cell. And every whimper and mewl and soft exhalation into his ear represents that key turning fractionally in the ancient, rusted lock. 

With him, in the blind rapture of orgasm, she can picture another forehead resting against hers, for once pulling her close instead of pushing her away.

With her, every little death contains the promise of the big one, the last one, his long-awaited rest after millennia of suffering.

And if he imagines the eyes and mouths and bodies of a hundred loves he’s lost, and if she imagines the dark eyes and sly smile of just one, there’s no one to tell. The pleasure is keener with the gloss of fantasy painted over it. Light’s harsh truths would do them no favors.


End file.
